


Hourglass

by curtailed



Series: Flotsam and Jetsam [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2020-07-26 03:56:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20037532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtailed/pseuds/curtailed
Summary: When it flips, you'll know it's over.(3/27/2020: it's going to be finished up in several dense chapters).





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> or der of the tags doen't matter; just wnated t mix iit up a littel so it's not as preidactable

For once, some of the most important people in your life were in one place.

It's a small classroom near the back of the school -- the kind where you have to navigate through sewer-drenched hallways and scrawled lockers, and smell smoke unfurling from the bathrooms -- and the lights here are considerably shittier quality. They swing low from the ceilings and sweep dim swathes across the desks. Each cluster of desks gets their own shine, painting the faces greasy and pained, until they seemed to be carved from wax.

It's here that you had been seated behind Dave Strider, two rows from the front and three seats from the right. It's his soft tousling of pure white hair and glassy aviators that made you stare, until quiet, merciless gears clicked in your head.

Your gaze drags to his right -- the seat is just on the radius of the light, splitting it into sickly glow and muted shadow, but you see the kid well enough. Two circular pins, as intricately carved as a amulet artifact, lie in a disaster of brown messy curls that slip past her shoulder blades. Where Dave is all lean angles, Aradia Megido is molded from gentle curves, but something in her face makes you move on to the person strolling down the aisle between them.

Dirk Strider has only graced this classroom thrice as a TA. He doesn't move deliberately or stealthily -- he just moves, foot ahead of the other, because his mind is caught up in a vortex of tangles and emotions hidden by triangular shades. They're not as glossy as his brother's; more grimy, less treasured, but they rest casually on his face and periodically get pushed up into wavy gold locks.

He taps a kid on the shoulder as part of his classroom patrol. The kid sits two seats behind Aradia, openly drooling on his desk, until Dirk's finger figuratively zaps him awake. While Dirk is all controlled motions, he flails like he's pseudo-drowning, trying to make a splash. Karkat Vantas's hair goes in every direction, a black thicket sprayed across his forehead, and every single muscle is knotted with pent-up tension.

That's what you notice about them.

You note passing details, like hair color and interesting accessories and the occasional article of clothing, but you don't hold on to their faces. You can't describe Dave's eyes or Aradia's mouth or Dirk's expressions or Karkat's snarl; those are ephemeral, slipping through like sand. Your mind is an hourglass and they simply stream down the neck, one of millions of grains, safely lost among so many others.

The hourglass has to flip at some point.


	2. Marrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blamks are for the "mystery" person's name adn pronouns, not that i's hard to fighre out; akso fo rhe roommar'w naem

Your dreams are quiet and relentless, like a tidal wave, until all at once they break into a kaleidoscope of colors.

Dimly you still feel your bed under your back. It keeps you ground, the cold hard touch of metal bars pressing against your spine, even as the rest of your thoughts whirl and swirl through a maelstrom of memories. Gossamer, shimmering webs crack across your vision, their silken strands as tough as steel beams, and your reminisces collide together with the force of a sledgehammer.

This time, you're wearing purple.

It's an absolute travesty of pajamas, down to the gaudy orange slippers barely gripping your toes, but the more pressing issue is the room you find yourself floating in.

The cavern's ceiling is nonexistent. Instead, glittering stars blink down on you, some pulsing ruby-red, some burning a drowsy emerald, lightly patterning the floor with multicolored spots. The walls slope outward in glossy silvery streaks and pure pitch hues and gives you the impression that you're at the bottom of some giant bowl. It's a circular room, and all around its walls are ensconced stone doors. 

Each door as a symbol carved onto it. There's one with grey swirling loops, like a set of cuffs, and then there's a pair of black-and-red concentric circles jaggedly slashed in half. Oddly enough, there's a symbol that looks like a orange hat. A few spots down, you spot a set of rust-red canes back to back, joined at the tip.

The door right next to it always gives you pause. 

It looks like the Roman numeral -- II -- with a set of horizontal parallel lines that gently bend outward. It's slathered in mustardy yellow and there's no doorknob. All the other doors have a doorknob.

When you place your palm on its surface, you can _feel_ something pulsing on the other side.

You press your ear to the symbol and hear a rush of voices -- they fluctuate from panicked whispers to bloodcurdling screams, always pleading, and you imagine there's a crowd of people pressed against the door, begging for you to release them.

You decide to call it a night.

-

You wake up to the sound of someone shoving in boxes.

It's still too early for sunrise -- the dawn's at the moment where indigo teeters into sudden flares of gold -- and the windows are coated in dew. A strange blend of shadows and light smear across the other bed, which is currently being assaulted by a spill of --

"Katanas," you say flatly, hazily watching thin, shiny blades scatter across the blankets.

Your new roommate doesn't even bother looking up. "They're props."

Mentally, you calculate the space available for both of you. You need to maintain a sizable space around your computers, and no one should ever go near your "2ecret 2ta2h" crammed beneath the wardrobe, but other than that he can exploit the room all he wants. You settle back onto your sheets, and observe him unpacking his things with a mechanical efficiency. Without your glasses, his features are a shadowy blur.

"You can turn on the light if you want."

"Didn't want to wake you up." He clips his words bluntly, like cutting his nails. He's pouring out clothes now -- you glimpse wrinkled wifebeaters, stained shirts, and pants still knotted from the washer. He throws them carelessly in his wardrobe. 

"It's fine, really."

"No." The syllable is laced with tension; clearly marking an end to the conversation.

Who are you kidding, you couldn't care less. You roll back over and trace patterns in the wall. You don't even remember his name, if it was ever given to you. Every year, they move in and out, and you remain the same, watching them move lifelessly about the room in an unbreakable cycle. 

Out for classes, in for sleep.

Repeat.

Rewind.

You barely remember their faces. One of them had -- some color of hair dye, and another sported a mohawk, and then you wonder why you always remember their hair. Their clothes. You remember things that are so easily changed, but you can't recall their eye color or their surnames.

Sometimes, you wish they weren't all grey shadows.

You wish you could remember an actual face.

It's not that you have memory deficiency; if someone directly asked you to pull them out of the crowd, you'd do so. You just don't care to. Even if you think of them -- and why would you? it's a fucking waste of time -- you color them featureless and add only the barest of detail to distinguish themselves from the crowd. There's no benefit in knowing what their hobbies are or what they liked to eat, not when you could think of other things instead. 

You could think of instead.

You lounge on your bed and recall face, and the way said your name, and how you rolled the syllables inside your mouth to make them musical. You want name to ring in the air like a bell. 

Fuck.

"What's your name?" you throw out, wincing a little at your lisp. His name is another piece of data to store away and rot unless called for.

" ." His voice is as flat as ever.

"Sollux Captor," you say back. There's a slight grunt of confirmation, and he's silent again.

The sun's beginning to leak in; he's backlit by the light, his outline now a solid black blob, and you realize you don't want to sleep anymore. You don't want to return to your dreams. You reach out for your glasses instead, feeling the frames poke into your palms, and you slip them on.

Now you can see him clearly.

He's tall -- you're not the tallest around, but in the hallways or in the crowd you're usually greeted with the sight of cowlicks and scalps. He's got several inches on you. The first thing that strikes you is his arms; they're long and pale, moving with a careless grace in and out of the boxes. It's riveting to watch. His hair is unstyled and spills down in waves across his brows, and you notice a pair of large, triangular shades pushed up onto his head.

Huh.

Something inside you tightens at the sight -- a little warning tap as you continue to observe him. His face is all angles and juts, his mouth a tense line, he's burning concentration through his eyes.

His eyes.

You can't see them from this distance, but they feel like they can burn lasers through the walls.

You drink in his appearance. Your gaze wanders to the clothes hanging off his shoulders, how he carries himself with an energy that reminds you of restless ants, how he's quietly muttering under his breath in a torrent of whispers and pauses that make your head reel. He doesn't even notice your stare. His hands begin trembling when he pulls out a from the box --

"Glasses_?_" you say flatly.

"Yep."

It's a pair of sleek, polished aviators. He palms it for a moment, and then

he puts it back in the box.

When he goes to pick it up, for a moment you see a pile of blood-red objects -- what looks like worn headphones, a leather-bound sketchbook, and strangely, an empty bottle of apple juice.

He kicks the box under his wardrobe, and it painfully reminds you of your own.

Finally -- _finally_ \-- he glances up to match your gaze.

"Like what you see?" You don't know how it's possible to balance both apathy and acid in words, but he pulls it off.

"Those aren't your things," you point out, intelligent as you are.

"You're right. Want a medal for that?"

Once again, you think of your own 2ecret 2ta2h.

"They're dead, aren't they."

You suppose you're being a major asshole at the moment.

You don't care.

Your own troubles are nestled under the wardrobe in the form of rusty circular hairpins, or a bent fedora you never got around to washing. It should still be smeared in dirt. The toy whip that's coiled as lazily as ever, like a sleeping serpent.

You match his look evenly, and you finally see his eyes -- they're a shade of hazel so pale they burn almost orange in the sunrise. Pools of molten, turbulent lava, and they pin you to the bed with a hatred that bleeds raw. He looks like he will shred you apart with his prop swords.

"It's really none of your business."

"Old girlfriend? Boyfriend? Close friend? Family?" You're goading him, feeding him your thoughts, and you can pinpoint the moment when he latches on.

"Brother."

You're hollow inside and you can't stop. It's a poison that starts in your stomach, but you love pushing people's buttons -- you love riling them up, seeing them shred themselves apart, and then hopelessly try to salvage the pieces. It's a pastime for you. It's better to tear into the world than continue flittering among shadows and blurs until the sky bleeds nothing.

"Sucks for you, then."

It's a bundle of painful nerves you've slammed into. He says something, and it's in a tone that drips venom onto the floor, but you've already slipped off your glasses and retreated further into the bed. He's not going to hit you while you lay quietly, already unaware of your surroundings. It's not sleeping; it's more like slipping into a fugue state, where you're aware of the temperature and the air and your senses but you let it filter through your mind, your grip on reality slipping.

Maybe you'll feel bad about what you said later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once agina, putting the skow in slow born


	3. Catching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skilp the rap part please, im worse thjan tavros
> 
> this s lilte biit filler ;0)

twinArmageddons [TA] was added to memo [SH3N4N1G4NS]

TC: My RaPs WaS mOtHeRfUcKiNg AwEsOmE aNd YoU kNoW iT

AA: i disagree

AA: especially the 0stentati0us rhymes t0wards the end

AA: y0u kn0w and i kn0w that a b0dy d0es n0t w0rk that way

TC: rEaLly?

AA: a b0dy cann0t and sh0uld n0t bend twice in such a manner, n0 matter what the lyrics say

GC: G4MZ33, L3T M3 T3LL YOU SOM3TH1NG

GC: TH3 SONG W4S 4BSOLUT3 BULLSH1T

TA: why am ii even here, my viirgiin eyes are bleeding.

CA: so you are a vvirgin

TA: ye2, contiinue to diig at the iinnocent person here, you want a plaque for best fii2hfuckiing douche of the year?

GC: 1 SHOULD'V3 JUST R4PP3D W1TH VR1SK4 1NSTE4D

CA: dont worry gam i lovved it

GA: I Fail To See Why Most Of Us Are Included In This Discussion

GA: Most Of Us Are Exclusively Busy And Have Little Interest In Slam Poetry

TT: Speaking of exclusively busy:

TT: Kanaya, do you mind if I borrow you for a bit?

GA: Not At All

TT: I will return you with interest, if you wish so.

tentacleTherapist [TT] has left the memo [SH3N4N1G4NS]

grimAuxiliatrix [GA] has left the memo [SH3N4N1G4NS]

AA: alright we have s0llux here, wh0s turns are it t0day

GC: M3 V3RSUS MR 4PPL3B3RRY

TA: fuck

TA: fuckfuckfuckfuck thii2.

GC: YOU R34DY? >:D

TA: fuck no

TA: 2o.

TA: 2ollux iin the hou2e yo

TA: or he would bee if 2omeone hadnt added hiim to the memo, yeah

TA: ii mean, theoretiically he2 stiill iin iit, but he would be sleeping iinstead, uh huh

TA: but 2ince he2 iin iit

TA: he2 not goiing two quiit iit

TA: even though ii have two pee 2o fuckiing badly ii 2wear

TA: actually, can you hold up for a 2econd and let me relea2e my pii22

TA: brb

GC: ...

GC: ...

GC: ...

GC: TH4T W4S 3V3N WORS3 SH1T, SOLLUX

GC: I C4N ST1LL SM3LL YOU 4CT1V3

CA: sol that wwas so fucking bad

TC: i LiKe ThIs NeW fReEsTyLe SoLbRo'S gOt

TC: MaKeS a BrOtHeR wAnT tO bReAk OuT a FeW rApS oF hIs OwN :o)

AA: f0r the sake 0f 0ur hapless s0uls here

AA: please d0nt

GC: C4N W3 4LL 4GR33 TH4T TOD4Y'S TURNOUT C4N B3 S4F3LY R3CYCL3D 4W4Y, N3V3R TO B3 SPOK3N OF 4G41N?

CA: wwell im out, im gonna be askin fef a couple a things today

caligulasAquarium [CA] has left the memo [SH3N4N1G4NS]

TC: sEe YoU mOtHeRfUcKeRs ArOuNd, CoOkInG uP sOmE fReSh PoEtRy ;o)

GC: FOR TH3 LOV3 OF GOD

terminallyCapricious [TC] has left the memo [SH3N4N1G4NS]

GC: W3LL

GC: 1T'S 4WFULLY QU13T

AA: i supp0se

GC: ...

GC: ...

AA: ...

GC: 1'LL SP4R3 US BOTH TH3 4WKW4RDN3SS OF FORC3D CONV3RS4T1ON 4ND L34V3

GC: GOODBY3

gallowsCalibrator [GC] has left the memo [SH3N4N1G4NS]

apocalypseArisen [AA] has set the memo [SH3N4N1G4NS] to private!

AA: psst, theyre all g0ne now

TA: thank fuck.

TA: 2ometime2 thiis shiit iis way too much two handle.

AA: d0 y0u n0t enj0y the pleasure 0f slam p0etry

TA: not really.

TA: but ii dont want two hurt TZ2 feeliings, so on thiis miiserable niight ii fiind my2elf on the toiilet tryiing to pii22 out 2ome jam2.

TA: ii2 uncomfortable, two 2ay iin the lea2t.

TA: ii may have drank a bit two much 2oda.

AA: interesting

TA: ...

TA: GOD, what ii2 wrong wiith me. why the hell am ii even telliing you all of thii2?

AA: the p0wer 0f friendship :)

TA: ugh.

AA: d0 y0u want t0 talk ab0ut anything?

AA: yesterday y0u said y0u wanted to discuss s0mething about y0ur r0mantic endeav0rs

TA: riight.

AA: yes

AA: because, as a g00d friend, im here f0r y0u

AA: and i w0uldnt be jeal0us 0r anything

AA: thatd be weird and unseemly

AA: 0_0

TA: je2u2, AA, that expre22iion never faiil2 two bee completely creepy.

TA: but uh.

TA: okay, 2o hypothetiically ii liike someone.

TA: and iid liike to a2k them out.

AA: can i guess wh0 it is

TA: um.

TA: yeah 2ure, why not.

AA: are they part 0f 0ur mem0s

AA: n0t neccessarily t0days, just any 0f the 0nes we had

TA: ye2.

AA: 0h, 0kay

AA: is it a b0y 0r girl

TA: ...

TA: youll gue22 iit out two easiily.

AA: can y0u describe them at least

AA: 0nly f0r curi0sity purp0ses, 0f c0urse

TA: yeah, that2 ea2y.

TA: ...

TA: ...

TA: nah, ii thiink youll know who iit iis pretty soon.

AA: ?

TA: iill ju2t grow a 2et and a2k them.

AA: 0h

AA: g00d luck i guess

TA: iill ju2t 2ay "hey, ii thiink youre a great per2on two hang out wiith, and weve known each other pretty long. do you want two hang out together?"

AA: y0u g0 f0r it

TA: okay.

TA: here goes.

TA: hey, ii thiink youre a great per2on two hang out wiith, and weve known each other pretty long. do you want two hang out together?

AA: n0, say it t0 them

TA: ...

TA: ii just diid.

AA: whatd he 0r she say

TA: AA.

TA: AA.

TA: iim about two pee my2elf agaiin out of embarra22ment.

AA: was it that bad?

AA: was it eridan? y0u always had a strange rapp0rt with him

AA: n0t that ive been 0bserving

AA: that w0uld be wr0ng 0_0

TA: ii cannot beliieve thii2 ii2 happeniing.

TA: before ii diig thii2 hole further, ju2t reread the la2t few line2.

AA: ...

AA: ...

AA: ...

AA: 0h

apocalypseArisen [AA] has left the memo [SH3N4N1G4NS]

TA: well

TA: fuck.

TA: ii can ju2t go drown my2elf iin honey riight now.

TA: plunge 2traiight down into god2 jiizz.

TA: why am ii 2tiill 2aying the2e thiing2, je2u2 chrii2t.

TA: AA you there?

TA: 2orry about thii2.

TA: ii diidnt mean two ruiin your whole day.

TA: well, ii mean, ii diid mean two

TA: you know

TA: maybe briighten iit?

TA: haha, who am ii kiiddiing, iim goiing two 2queeze a 2ad wank over at the corner and pretend ii wa2nt born

apocalypseArisen [AA] has rejoined the memo [SH3N4N1G4NS]

TA: oh hey AA.

TA: plea2e dont read what ii ju2t wrote 2o ii can pre2erve 2ome of my diigniity.

AA: sollux.

TA: youre u2iing punctuatiion for once, ii2 2ome meteor headed our way?

TA: whoop2, look at me, there ii go agaiin wiith the mo2t iinane bullshiit flyiing out of my mouth.

AA: are y0u asking me 0ut 0n a date?

TA: when you put iit that 2ubtly and 2moothly

TA: ye2.

After that point, you can't go on.

You toss your phone to the other side of the bed, listening to your roommate showering in the bathroom. You think of his box and the way he was ready to kill you over any slight. You wonder if he reads back on the messages they sent to each other, branding the words in his thoughts, as if they'll start speaking to you again through sheer agony.

What fucking kills you is that she said yes.

What makes you feel like your intestines were shredded was that she had temporarily left the memo to put down the phone and jump ecstatically in the air, fist pumping and hair bouncing wild, yelling out "YES!" at the top of her lungs. That's what she told you, anyhow.

What makes you want to slam your fists against the headboard is that she was happy about it, and she wanted to, and so did you, and for that moment you were so.

Fucking.

Happy.

And the year after that had been pure heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kardkat incomimnbg in ne xt chopter


	4. Incite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pov swhitghc

When you appear in Dirk's room, he's predictably got the box propped open on his lap, sitting at the edge of his bed. Dave's shades are still as polished as ever. He's absentmindedly fingering the temple, careful not to let his nails touch the lens. The room smells a bit like him -- of rusted metal and fizzing wires -- but it's saturated with another's: sharp and sweet, like acrid honey, the same sting present in both scents. 

The sting of loss.

"Roommate?" you ask, barely aware that your hands rest on your sickles.

"He left a couple of minutes ago. Didn't tell me where he was going."

Worst comes to worst, you could just blank his roommate's memory before he could even blink -- but it's a painful, violating process you're not too comfortable with. Dirk glances over at you, eyes bright in the afternoon sun, and you spare little hesitation stripping your shirt off.

The broken record symbol remains ensconced at the lower edge of your ribs, glowing a mild pink. It's a few degrees lighter than your skin tone, which you specially layered over your usual grey. Getting caught on Earth is inefficient and a waste of time.

It's a standardized ritual. Dirk has long ceased to believe anything you say -- and it's still your fucking fault, and you know it, and he especially knows it -- but he'll absorb in visual proof. He shuffles closer to you, patting the space adjacent to him.

Gingerly you sit down.

He traces the scar. It wasn't a scar before, not while Dave remained alive and warm in your arms, but three years have left the cut scabbed and mottled. It's a strange sensation, watching his skinny finger brush over the ridges, trying not to touch the rest of your skin, confirming what he's looking for. At this distance, you can feel his energy bleed into the other side -- flickers of orange, haphazardly forking into emptiness and caverns. 

"Okay," he finally says, his voice hoarse.

You slip your sweater back on.

The two of you sit in awkward silence. When Dave was present, he acted somewhat like a buffer -- you could indirectly converse through him, letting him work as a medium for your words. You don't think you have had a private conversation before. It's tense as hell between you. He doesn't fully hate you -- you know that's bullshit, but he claims it with his own mouth -- he simply doesn't know you. He doesn't want to know you. And you have no urge to satisfy any curiosity.

Nonetheless, it's bimonthly-checkup time. You promised Dave, you promised Dirk, and it's the least you can do.

He shrugs off his undershirt -- he's more cut than Dave, who was a literal skeleton, but he's still all uncomfortable angles and juts. On his ribs, Dave's symbol is a little different. It's still a scar, much like yours, but it pulses with a warmer, redder color.

The color of family.

Yours emanated the faintest pink.

You wondered what he was thinking.

He doesn't bother putting the shirt back on. The temperature in the room's unbearable, anyhow, and even in your form you can feel heat prickling up your skin. He goes back to rummaging the box. The third time you had visited him, you had attempted to look through the things with them -- you stupidly thought this would initiate some sort of camaraderie between you -- and what he had _almost_ said to you, the anger etched in his face, reminded you why he carried those swords around.

To kill.

You politely turn away instead.

You could leave, you suppose. Dirk never tells you to; he never really tries to talk at all. You're grateful for that. You don't have the slightest clue what to speak to him with. 

You turn your attention to his absentee roommate instead.

His side of the room is less bare -- he's the original one here, judging by how much his smell permeates the walls -- and has almost a sick obsession with red and blue. Hell, his laptop is covered in garish stickers, and the bedsheets look like someone went downtown with hair dye. It's a crumpled mess. Compared to his side, Dirk's looks like a monk cell.

"How's your roommate?" you ask, and Dirk actually looks _startled_ \-- his eyes go all wide for a moment, his hair idiotically splayed across his forehead. Congrats; you should get a fucking medal for initiating conversation.

Vantas: 1, World: 0.

"A piece of shit." He barely misses a beat.

Gog, you felt like you were dragging a dead body along. "How so?"

"Hmm?"

"Why is he a dick?"

"He made fun of Dave." Dirk considers his words, re-tasting them, and shrugs. "I'm lying, actually. I don't know. We spoke around five words to each other. Can't really blame him either, he's got his own box under the wardrobe."

Reflexively, you drop down to the floor. Dirk's right; there's a faded, smudged box crammed messily under a chipped wardrobe, barely fitting in the space. Without preamble you tug it out of its spot and haul it into your lap. It sags from the weight, the walls straining to rip.

"Dude, what are you doing."

"Protecting you." You run your hands over the cardboard, the shitty handwriting -- 2ecret 2tash, really? he should've labeled it 'used condoms' or something -- trying to detect its contents. No heartbeat pulses from the interior. There's no bomb or electronic stowed inside. Dirk watches your movements with a potency liable to burn his retinas out. 

"Are you actually going to security-check every goddamn thing he has?"

"I've done it for you before," you snap back. "I'm not going to take any fucking risk on this."

The box should be good to go. A little flare of curiosity burns in you, but you push the thing over to DIrk's legs. He doesn't bother shoving it away. Next, you slink over to the roommate's dressers, pressing your nose against the wood. You let the other side flow into you, your vision dimming, smells and sounds and tastes and touches intensifying as you slip deeper.

"You know how absolutely-fucking-out of context this looks? Looks like you're trying to chew up his underwear." His voice rings like a bell.

You _do_ catch the faint smell of underwear -- and how you know it is, you'll never confess -- so you move down, drawer by drawer. Shirts. Pants. Socks. Customary apparel. Starch plastic hits your nose on the bottommost drawer, and instinctively you yank it open.

Inside is a _what the hell_ \-- 

"Dirk, your roommate literally has a bee costume." You can't resist pulling it out, shaking the blur of black and yellow into full drapery. "What the shit?"

Dirk's voice colors with surprise. "Why are you even snooping?"

"Security check," you say. There's another costume underneath -- it's dustier but more crinkled, like someone held it for prolonged periods. It's a rust-red fairy costume, light fabric pressing onto thin, cellophane wings. You're mildly surprised that it's in such clear cogency -- you're usually near blind when you're delving between both realities. At least it can't be weirder than the bee shit. You shove the thing back in and move on to your next target.

"I can't believe I'm seeing this."

"Shut up and take it like a champ." You're inhaling the blankets, picking up on sweat and honey -- why the fuck is there honey -- and then something more salty, and you know the taste as well as anyone as you linger over a compressed pillow.

Tears.

You don't tell Dirk he's roomed with a crier. What do you remember, however, is the taste of Dirk's own -- laced with bitterness, like cyanide, as he sobs into your chest the first night. Your own has long been dulled on your tongue. 

"Are you trying to eat the pillow?"

"No." You check under the bed -- there's the staleness of a few rolled-up socks, some stray cobwebs as soft as hair -- nothing off the radar here. 

There's still one thing you haven't checked. The box lies tantalizing on Dirk's calves, slightly agape, and you know it's all good to go and you're itching to tear it open. You have to make sure. For a moment your mind wanders, and you wonder if its contents is anything like Dirk's -- remnants, relics, of a better time, but it would only make you feel worse.

The silence has fallen back between both of you. You pull the box into your arms, setting it on the floor -- you don't want to break anything by accident -- and open up the flaps. Quickly you memorize how the objects are located, some pushed into the corner, others tucked along the sides. Nothing like the immaculate grid Dirk's got in his own. There's sparks of life flittering over them and you surmise that they've been recently handled. You don't feel any photographs or inscripted words. It's just a collection of --

"Sollux," you hear Dirk say calmly, and only then you're registering that the door's swinging open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for ther wait, and aslo more stuff pickgin up necy chsapter


	5. Little Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhuhuhoh yehhahhh upd8

A coffee sounded nice, but the moment you stumble into the hallway you're already regretting every motion. A wave of sickness pounds slowly into your head, like a dull hammer, and you almost gag.

Your feet follow their usual path -- it carries you lazily down the corridor, inevitably to where the lobby will be with its shitty coffee machine, and the sun slants in all weirdly through the windows. The hallway shines with a sick, yellow glow. You feel like you're trapped in a laboratory room, under scrutiny by a thousand eyes, sweat clinging to your neck and back.

You lean against the wall instead and try to breathe.

Your pills are running low -- you haven't taken your recommended dose in the past few days, not while dorms were shifting around and you were struggling to cling onto this room, your very last sanctuary.

And you can't even have that anymore. 

Your chest burns -- _burns_ \-- like someone pressed hot coals over the area, and you struggle to blink tears out of your eyes. The hallway's way blurrier and cooler than you remember. Its yellow sheen is gone; grey begins leaking into your vision, a steadily growing pool that darkens your periphery. Your hands shake a little.

You really need to get your meds.

Something hard pricks against your knee, and you realize you've slid down onto your left one -- you claw at your chest, trying to rip out that awful pressure pulsing instead, pushing needles and pins into your lungs, and the whole world _snaps_ into pale silver like molten mercury, like you're trapped inside a kiln and watching clay burn. Your breaths are short and sharp through your nose.

There's someone else in the hallway.

You barely have the energy to adjust your glasses -- a gesture more habitual than useful, because it just makes you dizzy again -- and now you're fucking _hallucinating,_ it's never gotten this bad before -- 

the figure's a dim blob into the darkness. They're completely hooded, their clothes pulsing with what looks like

red?

hues, their steps soft and quick as they draw near you.

Your throat seizes up. 

Dread pools hot into your stomach -- your heart's speeding up, frantically slamming behind your ribs, and you're seconds away from pissing yourself. Something taps steadily in your ears, a rhythm as infallible as the ground you stand on, and it reminds you of the ticking of a clock,

Beat.

They're meters from you, reaching for you, their hands pasty and soft --

You're barely aware of when you stand, the hallway glowing as grey as a storm cloud, the figure pausing inches from you -- you're fumbling for your door, you didn't even lock it behind you --

there's a monster in your room.

sits complacently on his bed, still moving with the same casualness you observed, but there's an absolute _freak_ crosslegged on the ground, this lump of grey and candy-corn horns and black, thicket hair and he's holding the fedora so halfheartedly, like it's just a toy to be tossed away.

_Fuck._

You're dreaming. You're dreaming, because flares orange like a dying star, and the monster pulses a deep, blood-red, and even if he's just a figment he's awfully real when you tackle him onto the ground --

You're fighting your own demons here.

You slam a fist into his face, and it's puzzling that you can so innately sense the contours of muscle, bone, skin -- it's like being thrust into a simulator. It's too real. It should be dissolving into glitter and dust when you confront it.

You hit it again.

Noise flows through your ears and you almost blacken out; a _force_ pushes against the barrier of your mind, trying to demolish it into oblivion, trying to make you forget your own name -- it's not even a room anymore, it's cold hard metal all around you, all dripping wires and red and blue sparks --

sparks?

blood's dotting your knuckles.

So the only reasonable action is to do it again. And again. The strings of your heart twist, like someone's trying to pull your very soul from your own chest, but you're blazing and lit up like a magneisum firecracker. The thing under you won't go away, mocking you with its velvet skin, its eyes like embers, and all you taste is acrid copper in your mouth. The dual sensations of your life being torn, being restored, battle inside you into a vicious storm, your stomach pitching and flailing.

Bone, crunch.

Crunch.

As steady as the ticking of a clock.

It's not doing, so you're dragging your nails into what might be its face -- maybe it's just a mask you need to peel off, to expose the raw bitterness it's leaking -- colors swirl on its chest, this bright pink that reminds you of a light show, of the time you went to the gardens with and the moonlight had been at the softest, sweetest angle since all year.

Do it again, you suppose.

You _need_ to crush it into dust.

It's only when firm, hard hands grasp your shoulders, bodily tugging you off it, your hands coated in a blood that's shades brighter than yours -- candy red -- and you hear ragged breathing, someone coughing up their vitality, all jagged and torn in the air 

_fucking hell_

the room floods into you all at once, that terrible grey lustre blending back into dull peach, and you welcome the color change like water to a traveler in a desert --

the ground hits your back first, then your head, and all you can hear are the voices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and thats how sollux and kk meet 
> 
> like best 1st impresssions amirite


	6. Transition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one i def can get rolling! yeah upd8 btw

You and Karkat take turns staring at Sollux -- unceremoniously dumped on his bed, snoring softly -- and then at each other.

Neither of you speak -- and then you open your mouths all at once, a dam broken --

"Did your fucking roommate mention he apparently had some sort of _brain_ _worm_ stuck up his nook -- "

"You look like an Edvard Munch painting gone wrong -- "

Both of you glare at the other.

Already, Karkat's healing -- your Other vision spots his grey skin beginning to glow faintly, sewing up the wounds, even while the human facade starts smoothing out the bruise into blemishes. He rubs at his nose a bit, jaw angrily snapping shut and opening like he's trying to swallow the maximum volume of air.

"So what was up with that?"

"I've known him for the extraordinary length of half a day." You twist your hands in your lap -- it's a habit of yours, especially when you first brushed on the skill of tearing out someone's _fucking soul_ from their body. Very applicable in real life. "Maybe he got pissed, since you were goddamn plowing through his cuddle box."

Karkat scowls at the object in question and hastily kicks it toward the bottom of Sollux's wardrobe, where it originally was. You almost picture him whistling innocently. He glances at Sollux again -- who's currently as responsive as a lump of shit -- and his frown deepens.

"Does he take medicine or anything?"

"No clue, dude." You're not fond of prolonged conversation; your words bite off tersely at the end of each syllable. 

"What if this crap happens while you're asleep?"

"Then I'd wake up and beat the shit out of him." You're a light sleeper, and you've done it before. The memory of sawing through a hulking Carapacian as your morning greeting still rings in your nightmares sometimes. "Don't worry about me."

"I promised -- "

"_Fuck_ it. You've checked up on me, we're both alive, and you got your ass handed to you by a scrawny shit with the constitution of a bamboo pole. You want your own doctorate of congratulations or anything?"

"He was _not_ a bamboo pole," Karkat snarls, his fists clenching. "Did you see him spark up like a malfunctioning Perigees' Eve tree?"

You had, you admitted, but you thought it was a byproduct of tugging on his soul.

"I thought it was my ability -- "

"It _wasn't_," he snaps, struggling not to succumb to the urge to pace like a madman. "He was -- he was all _searing,_ lightning-shit zapping out of every ugly-ass pore -- that's not fucking normal. I'm not human, but _I_ know most of you aren't a fucking electrical outlet. What's up with the light show?"

"Maybe he's like me." Not a big deal -- more people than you'd think had the ability to probe both Material Realm and the Incipisphere, although most only caught the latter in the vaguest of dreams. 

"Bullshit."

"Okay." You're too tired to keep talking. "What do you want to do? Slit his throat while he sleeps?"

"No -- "

"So just don't show up when he's around. That solution is really fucking clear to me, bro."

Karkat stares at your unconscious roommate a little longer. 

"What are you going to do when he wakes up?" he finally asks, his gaze lingering on a spot right over Sollux's heart. You lazily wonder how easy it'll be to tear him into splinters, especially when he's vulnerable like he is now.

"You could wipe his memory," you suggest.

Karkat doesn't respond. He's prodding gently at Sollux's chest, absentmindedly tracing something in the air -- you've been in this business for years and even now you can't say with surety that you know half of the shit that's happening. In your Second Sight you notice something glowing faintly, like glittery dust suspended in air.

"Vantas, what are you even -- "

Some _shape_ solidifies in the air, like precipiate settling into a bottomless well, and all you're aware of is in this moment -- in the depths of the Veil, in the other world of dreams and visions and ambiguity -- there's a cold, high siren echoing across the chasms, broadcasting to the edges of the universe, the cosmos, and somewhere out there a thousand eyes turn to stare at where you and Karkat and Sollux are currently at.

"Karkat," you bite out through gritted teeth, and adrenaline already rushes into you -- sword in scabbard, posture ready to kill, your eyes on high alert -- "did you just -- I don't even know, dude, are you fucking high. Are you actually fucking, goddamn high."

Karkat stares at you with the growing expression of sick, dead horror.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Fuck," he whispers, his hand still pressed against your roommate's chest. "_Fuck_ \-- DIrk -- we've got -- we gotta get out of here, holy shit, we have to -- "

"We've got two minutes thanks to whatever stunt you just pulled," you snarl, but he's already moving, almost effortlessly throwing Sollux's prone body over his shoulder. The single window by your bedroom should work. You _run _toward it, feeling like particles of light, the world blurring before your vision --

_crack_

just like an action movie, you and Karkat and your third unwilling passenger are leaping out the window, the full dawn's aura carrying your feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i pushed the "plot" forward by a HUGE bunch bc i realize ive been doing super friggin slow updates 
> 
> so while im still working on that uber long rebellion fic this one might also be getting some love because i kinda know where im going now! :D


	7. Deep In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hot DAMN I had not updated this thing in months...sorry about that!
> 
> good news (i guess) though: i eked out an outline for this story! i pinky promise to finish it :D

You wake up from nothingness. You wake abruptly, and painfully, your head colliding with some sort of wall behind you, and your dreams were empty and haunting and you wandered among stone so ancient even the stars never shone on their surfaces. You became dust in a blink of an eye, but you were listless --

A hand clamps over your mouth before you can make a sound.

It's -- 

It's your roommate. He's looking a bit worse for the wear, a cut on his forehead that's trickling blood from temple to chin, and one of his shades' lens is cracked. His other hand's clenched around a

_katana._

You instinctively try to buck up and throw off his hand, but his fingers only wrap around your jaw tighter. He glances back at you, shaking his head frantically and trying to use his sword hand's thumb to jab at his lips.

_Don't make a sound,_ he's mouthing at you, and you _feel_ your eyes widen from -- from --

_Where the fuck are you._

Your senses rush in at once, gravity reorienting around yourself -- the sudden assault of stimuli almost makes you pass out a second time, your eyes distantly clinging onto some kind of cave, the mouth facing a deep, emerald-green sky polluted with streams of sulphur-yellow clouds. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to recalibrate your other senses -- you smell sweat. Sweat stains over your roommate's palm as he presses it harder onto your mouth, and your chest pounds harder trying to breathe. The surface beneath you is cold, the freeze bleeding into your thin layer of shirts. The only sound, apart from his breathing, is 

_tap_

You don't have to glance up at face at all to know he's _terrified,_ but you do anyway. His whole body is as tense as a strung wire.

_tap_

It's coming from outside. Slowly, you reach up to grasp at his wrist, and your fingers feel disembodied and boneless as they smear away at his elbow. He glances at you once, nods, and pulls his hand off your mouth.

_tap_

You try to move. Your whole body's _sore_ \-- and you don't remember how, all you remember is this great, senseless rush of chaos like a million things were poured into your every vein, overloading you into -- nothing, really. Your hands shake as you steady yourself, trying to push off the wall.

_tap_

It's getting closer.

The surroundings are static; everything is utterly still, the air cold and sharp as it rips down your throat. Something _rustles_ outside like it's dragging a body through grass. The sky is lightless, you realize, only suffused with a dim, malevolent glow.

_tap_

You see its shadow first thrown upon the cave wall.

It's a silhouette -- or it used to be, because nothing humanoid should _ever_ walk like that, like each bone has been shattered in its legs. It walks jerkily, hands and arms stiff to its front even as its head tilts alarmingly until you think it's going to break its neck. It walks -- slowly. Plodding. The mouth hangs open, a gaping maw, and even in the dimness you can't mistake the slabs of heavy, wet red tongue that lolls out between jagged teeth.

_tap_

It's tapping two small pieces of stone against each other. One stone is lime green, the other coated candy-red, and it rhythmically taps them against each other again and again, fingers shaking violently as it tries to maintain the pace. You can't even tell what color its skin is supposed to be.

_tap_

It stands there, and stares at the two of you.

the first to move.

He just -- one moment he's kneeling at your side, the next he _cuts_ through the thing with the force of a tornado, blade shearing through flesh and bone, splattered with blackening blood, and the thing just -- it just _sighs,_ its glassy eyes fluttering close, and the stones fade into plain greys and browns as it tumbles from its hands. The thing simple buckles where it stands, body hitting the floor with a soft thud. Dirk shuffles off from behind it, flicking the blood from his blade and watching it splatter against the wall.

You pass out a second time.

The second time you wake, it's a -- a _person?_ cradling your head, and you're lying sideways, and you're somewhere else entirely -- outside, inside, you don't know, you're just aware of a pain that _grows_ in the depths of your stomach like a disease. You want to plunge your hand into your entrails and tear out the agony, let it slip through your fingers, but someone's cradling the side of your face, hands brushing your neck and jaw. It's a callused hand; the rough texture of the skin somehow soothes you, grounds you, and you let your heartrate calm down.

" " whoever's holding you calls out, and you see your roommate come into view --

_Who's holding you -- _

You -- you've never seen his face before, but you must have, and he must be -- his skin's _grey,_ soft and almost supple in the light, and a mass of messy hair rests on his scalp like a bird's nest, and apparently _horns_ protrude from his scalp like two oversized pieces of candy corn --

_monster_

Something _screams_ outside, high and cold as it whistles along the -- desert, you were out_side,_ this empty expanse of land that shone like sand and glass and tears -- and you stare up at a violet sky, ten suns split like flames, and you must be dying. The hand that touches you is wrong, wrong and cold and not hand at all. You never went to funeral. You never visited grave at all.

You're dying on the hill.

You dream of clocks and blood that drip into rivers, of a smile that was ephemeral in its beauty; you're back in the cavern again, your breathing vanished, the sounds behind the doors a slow, steadying roar.

You wake in a room you've never laid eyes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sollux dirk karkat are in the incipisphere, fyi


End file.
